“Checking up on you, maybe? Hillabrand could have been trying to find out if you ditched him for another guy. Sends his boy to see how many are in your car, how many cars in the drive. It doesn’t spell conspiracy; it spells hormones. You’re pretty. You sparkle. Men go crazy for that.”
Hearing this from him clearly caught her off guard. “Sparkle?” she asked. “Did you say I sparkle?” She stepped closer, laid her hands on his shoulders. “Listen to you!”
Her palms felt warm through his uniform. She smelled of lilac and cinnamon, and, for a moment, she was everything-all he could smell, all he could sense.
A noise from out on the porch surprised them both. He jerked his head in that direction, still skittish from the encounter out back a few nights earlier.
Gail. Her face pressed to the glass and framed by open curtains; her expression that of a voyeur caught in the act. Walt immediately saw the scene from Gail’s point of view: the fire burning. Fiona’s hands on his shoulders, their bodies close. Gail, the most jealous woman he’d ever known. Jealous, no matter what. Almost a matter of pride.
She hurried off the porch. Walt ran to the front door and burst outside, calling her name. The car door thumped shut. Tire rubber whistled on the ice and then gripped. Walt charged up the shoveled path, shouting her name. The car shot back out into the street, fishtailing. He saw only taillights then, as he stood in the middle of the empty street. Still shouting for her to stop.
Since the split, Gail hadn’t come by the house unannounced. Not once. For her to have done so meant… something. His awkward talks with Brandon came to mind. Had Brandon carried the conversation home? Had she wanted to weigh in? Negotiate a truce?
A neighbor, Mrs. Shunt, had ventured out onto her porch to see what all the shouting was about. The sheriff, in full uniform, stood in the street without a jacket, shouting at a departing car. A familiar car. The curtains at the Fridlers’ house moved: the old bird had been spying on him as well. The sheriff’s marital problems were well known, but this was the first time he’d been seen chasing his soon-to-be-ex wife’s car down the street and shouting at her.
Worse, when he turned, there was Fiona at the open front door, partially backlit and actually glowing. Looking radiant. He imagined what Gail must have imagined.
He arrived at the top of the steps, wearing the porch light like a crown, a harsh shadow cast down on him, turning his eye sockets black and hollow. He stood there for a second, wondering if his actions had looked as childish as they now felt. Afraid to go inside with her. Too cold to do anything otherwise.
“That was her?” Fiona asked.
“Yeah.”
“You think she… I mean… we weren’t doing anything.”
The last thing he wanted, the last thing he could handle right then, was a discussion.
Then his mouth betrayed him. “She gave me a lecture about not setting the girls against her. This, despite her bailing on them. When they visit her for a night-a rarity-it’s at a friend’s, never at Brandon ’s. She has this all worked out, as long as it’s her way. And seeing us just now… Oh, boy.”
Fiona approached him. He held up his hands to stop her advance. With the porch light overhead, it felt as if they were both on stage, acting out some melodrama.
Fiona had no intention of embracing him. Instead, with a panicked look on her face, she reached through his defensive pose and grasped the CDC biosensor tag clipped to his uniform’s right chest pocket. She angled it up and into the porch light so that they both could see it.
One wedge of the white hexagon-separated by plastic dividers- was a distinct lavender, on its way to purple.
“You’ve been exposed to something.”
For a moment, Walt couldn’t get past the Gail fiasco. Exposed to the wrath of an ex-wife. But taking notice of the purple triangle, the cold intensified.
Fiona instinctively stepped back.
Contaminated.
Each of the six sections represented a different contaminant. He understood what it meant. “There’s this CDC woman; might still be in town. She’ll know what’s next.”
“Jesus, Walt.”
“You’d better keep back. In fact, you’ll need to stay here until it’s sorted out.” He paused, still processing what it all meant. “This is not good.”
30
WALT FRANTICALLY SEARCHED HIS CLUTTERED DESKTOP, DISTINCTLY remembering being handed a business card. He’d left Fiona at his house, awaiting his call. The discovery of the triggered biosensor had panicked him. An unfamiliar reaction. He had no love of hospitals; abhorred the early hours of a flu or head cold.
Never mind he felt perfectly normal. Unable to distinguish fever from panic, he began to work himself up. The call to Brandon had gone unanswered. He’d left a message for his deputy to check his own biosensor and to quarantine himself-and Gail-if necessary. Procedure dictated stringent guidelines. Walt was stretching those procedures by visiting his office.
He found the business card at last. Called the cell number and got voice mail. Called the business number and was told by recording that Dr. Lynda Bezel was out of the office until Monday. She was likely still in the valley-Danny Cutter’s water source and bottling plant were located in the Lost River Range, east of Mackay, a three-hour drive each way this time of year. He guessed her investigation would require trips to the plant. Cutter was Walt’s best shot at finding her. More voice mail. He felt feverish and sick to his stomach, his skin itched, his bones ached, his head hurt. He donned a blue hazmat suit over his clothes in the privacy of his office, grateful that, given the hour, he had to walk by only the duty officer. He hurried outside to his Cherokee and drove, determined to find her.
Driving north took him into money country. Ketchum/Sun Valley wasn’t just rich, it was superrich, with more per capital wealth concentrated in such a small area than possibly any place in the country. He was accustomed to driving past the second-home estates, each the size and look of a country club. He arrived at Patrick Cutter’s fifteen-thousand-square-foot vacation home, in which his younger brother occupied a suite in the eastern wing, wearing his impatience and disgust openly on his tormented face.
Patrick Cutter’s estate consisted of five New England barns, all authentic timber-frame structures disassembled and moved from New Hampshire and Vermont and reassembled into an interconnected masterpiece. It was landscaped, even in winter, as if it had been standing for thirty years, and was surrounded by a privacy fence. Walt drove up to the closed gate, his headlights shining across the heated terrace-stone driveway. The only car he saw parked out front was a blue sedan with Boise plates and a rental-car sticker on the bumper. He knew the identity of the renter without running the registration, and, judging by the lack of interior lights, the house looked closed up for the night. Patrick used the place as a second home, spending less than six weeks a year here. His younger brother currently called it home.
Walt tried the phone number again, elected not to leave a second voice mail, and then called in on the gate box. Danny Cutter answered on the fourth ring. Walt announced himself and asked for Dr. Bezel.
“She’s right here,” Danny said. “We were just reviewing inspection reports.”
I’ll bet you were. Danny had a reputation. It was a few minutes past ten. “I need to speak to her.”
He was buzzed through the gate and parked in front of the rental. Danny Cutter answered the door barefoot, his polo shirt untucked, his hair tousled; but it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Danny was a young Jack Nicholson in training.
“Sheriff, you look like a housepainter,” Danny quipped. “Come in.”
“I’ll be in my car,” Walt said, turning.
“I didn’t mean to offend you!” Cutter called after him. Walt didn’t bother answering.
Bezel had put herself together quickly. She’d thrown on a pantsuit that was either similar to or the same one he’d seen her in previously. She’d pulled her hair back and had even managed to apply lipstick. But she’
d forgotten the perfume, and her strong scent revealed far too plainly what Danny Cutter had been inspecting. An awkward, embarrassing moment lingered as long as the interior light, which finally dimmed and went dark. Walt reached up and switched it back on. She’d been too self-absorbed to notice his paper suit. But now she did, and some of the red left her face.
“Sheriff?”
He unzipped the hazmat suit, reached in and picked the biosensor off his chest pocket. He handed it to her. “I’m supposed to report this.”
“Jesus…” She threw open the car door and stood outside in the cold. She knocked for Walt to put down the passenger window. “Shit, Sheriff, there’s protocol involved here! Procedure. What the hell were you thinking?”
“That you were the closest expert.”
“You’re supposed to isolate yourself and call the 800 number. You know the drill.”
“This is a small community, in case you hadn’t noticed. If a van full of space aliens shows up at my front door-and we both know how the government reacts to these situations-it’s going to throw this valley into a panic. My first and most important job is maintaining the peace, not causing riots. What’s that thing trying to tell me? I’m perfectly willing to do whatever’s necessary.”
She left the car and walked over to the light at the front door. Walt caught sight of Cutter inside, keeping his eye on developments. She turned the biosensor in the light, called inside to Cutter, and he handed her purse to her. She made a call on her cell phone. Walt was thinking he’d made the right choice-it was better if the space aliens showed up at Patrick Cutter’s isolated mansion than on Third Avenue South in Hailey. She returned to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. For the first time in about an hour, Walt felt some relief.
“Mild exposure to low-level radioisotopes,” she stated.
“I’m radioactive? Seriously?”
“If it had been a darker shade, there’d be reason for concern. The tags were modified post nine-eleven to be supersensitive. That way, if a container inspector, for instance, had had contact with even ultralow levels of radiation, it would be detected. Yours isn’t exactly ultralow, but it’s not high. You can lose the suit. We’ll ask that they run a few tests at the local hospital, but you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Walt leaned back against the headrest and let out an audible exhale.
She said nothing for a moment. “Must have scared you.”
“You think?”
“About my being here…” It became clear she’d had no intention of finishing the sentence when Walt made no attempt to interrupt her.
“About your being here,” Walt said, taking unexpected pleasure in her awkwardness.
“I’m a big girl. I can separate the two.”
“I’m not saying you can’t.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I know Danny’s history.”
“Preliminaries aren’t in. If there’s biological contamination at the bottling plant, we’re having a hell of a time finding it. Much less ID’ing it.”
“Do you carry one of those?” he asked, referring to his tag in her hand.
“Of course.”
“Did you wear one at the plant?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Walt considered this. He had a scenario in his head that he wasn’t willing to voice without a lot more proof. Her tag coming up blank didn’t sit well with his theory. “Have you asked Danny what he did out at the plant before your arrival?”
“Meaning?”
“What if his brother’s private jet happened to have flown in a wet team?”
“You’re saying he deep-cleaned the facility prior to my inspection?”
“You sound so shocked.”
“That’s illegal.”
“I doubt that. More like it violates some regulation.”
“Same thing to us.”
“Maybe so. But not really.”
“There’s protocol. I questioned Mr. Cutter. He answered me faithfully and to my liking.”
“You’re not on trial, Dr. Bezel. And drop the ‘Mr. Cutter’ crap, will you? Ask again,” Walt said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Are you telling me my job?”
“I’m telling you your sugar daddy can sweet-coat anything, can sweet-talk anyone, can fast-talk the best of them, and I put nothing past him. I’m betting he professionally hosed down his facility before you arrived, and that if you had a tape of your Q and A-which you don’t, I’m guessing-that you’d find he never lied to you but failed to tell the truth.” He paused. “Meet Danny Cutter, Dr. Bezel.”
She blinked repeatedly, pursed her lips, turned her face toward the house, and then trained her rage on Walt. “What is it with you people out here?”
“Ah, come on. He dodges a few questions. No one’s ever done that? And, at least for an evening, he’s managed to take your mind off work. Score two points for Danny.”
“Stop it!” Her lower lip was quivering. She looked ready to bite his head off.
“Test the plant for low-level radioisotopes,” Walt said.
Her neck made a cracking sound, she spun it so quickly. “You’re saying you were there? At the bottling plant?”
Walt considered how to answer this. “No, I wasn’t,” he said. “And that’s the hell of it.”
SATURDAY
*
31
ROY COATS’S WIDE SHOULDERS FILLED UP ONE SIDE OF A booth table in the dim recesses of the back corner of the Mel-O-Dee steak house in Arco, Idaho.
The woman who entered, fanning at the smoke-filled air, had aged fifteen years in the past twelve months since he first recruited her. The meth had dragged bags under her once-pretty eyes, melted her gums, and had turned her skin a pasty gray. But she still had the tight body of a thirtysomething.
She couldn’t help the way she walked-and not many men missed it. All without an ounce of self-awareness. If she’d had a face to go with it, she wouldn’t have been walking into this bar. But the small head and pointed chin, the turned-in teeth, and pixie nose had all suffered under the effects of the meth. She wore a mask of melted, sallow skin, and carried a haze of disrespect, like an out-of-work whore. At a glance, you’d never have imagined her an atomic physicist.
“Evening,” he said. “Buy you a drink?”
She shrugged.
Roy signaled the waitress, a sixty-year-old former rodeo queen with a beer belly. Without asking, he ordered his guest a double vodka on the rocks with a twist of lime, himself a draft beer.
“Do you have it?” he asked.
“Not yet. But it won’t be a problem.” She paused, then asked, “Do you have it?”
“You’re two weeks late.”
“So sue me. It’s tricky. They’re watching everyone like a hawk. You have only yourself to blame for that.”
“I need it. Soon,” he added.
“Yeah. And I need it now.” She leveled her eyes on him. Jaundice was setting in.
“You gotta take better care of yourself,” he said, caring nothing about her long-term health. “They’re going to figure you out. You don’t look so good.”
“When anyone asks-and it isn’t often-I tell them I can’t shake the flu. I can handle myself.” Her right hand trembled, and she tucked it in her lap.
They both went quiet, as the old cow approached and delivered the drinks. She asked if the younger woman wanted a menu and the younger woman laughed. She didn’t understand the concept of eating. Not anymore. The cow trundled off.
“Listen, I gotta have a backup plan. We lose this chance, no one’s going to listen.”
“I told you: I don’t know.”
“I’d hate to miss my next delivery,” he said.
Her hand clasped the glass more tightly, turning the skin beneath her unpainted fingernails a bloodless white. Her face remained impassive. “As if,” she said.
“Don’t push me.”
“I’m
on it. It’s not easy.” She leaned across to him, her breath giving lie to the myth that the smell of vodka went undetected. “It’s an atomic research facility, Roy boy. What do you expect?”
“Delivery,” he said equally softly. He despised the nickname, despised her weakness, despised most everything about her but her body. Her talking in that husky voice aroused him. “All those degrees of yours…”
Her eyes went off someplace over his head. He wondered what was going on in there, if she could grasp even a glimpse of her decline at the hands of the meth. He’d taken her from a lonely, bored, successful physicist and reduced her to a skeleton-eyed addict who showed no remorse over her breaches of security. Maybe it hadn’t been him or his cause but instead the tedium of a professional life that required total secrecy, performed in the middle of an enormous desert. The government contractor daily bused three thousand specialists just like her in from Pocatello -nerds with their laptops-a Mormon town where the idea of an exciting night out was a decaf latte at Starbucks. She’d walked into a four-year contract and had burned out within six months. She’d been waiting for someone like him to come along.
He passed the paper bag beneath the table. Collected no money for it. If she’d thought about that, it might have given her pause. He’d never charged her for the meth. He understood the ways of an addict. If she wasn’t totally behind his cause, she was at the very least accustomed to his keeping her high.
His knuckles brushed her knee under the table. Her hand met his and she took possession of the bag, and, with it, an eagerness flashed across her otherwise-dull, yellowing eyes.
“I could take a room at the Lazy Horse,” he said. “You wouldn’t have to wait. To risk smoking in the car. We wouldn’t want you to get busted.”
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